


Victory Red

by caitfair24



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Romance, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 21:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitfair24/pseuds/caitfair24
Summary: Vignettes of Bucky’s girl as she prepares for the most important moments of her life, 1942-1948. Inspired by Elizabeth Arden’s lipstick shade of the same name, released in 1941.





	Victory Red

**_1942_ **

By the soft glow of lamplight, you paint him a picture. Framing yourself in a softer kind of pretty than you're used to, a pretty of lace and curls, of black lashes that kiss your cheeks and lips as crimson as patriotism demands. The full, plush promise he's been staring at for two weeks, each and every time you manage to "pop" into the deli you know he and the Rogers boy like to frequent; each and every time he just so happens to be lingering on the sidewalk in front of your father's office around lunchtime -- when he knows you and Janie head out to the café around the corner. 

“ _Baby doll_ ,” he breathes, a brand against the tender skin at the junction between shoulder and neck. It’s a closer embrace than is usually reserved for two people unsure of the other’s middle name, but all you need to know about him is the light pattern of his kisses, the sweet nothings he whispers so deftly. 

You let him lead, every step, and you drink in his laughter more than the punch, more than the music, more than the heady chaos of being young during wartime, when seconds seem longer and hours ever shorter. 

Together, you grasp at the night, stretch it out more and more, a merry, turbulent frenzy of savouring the time, savouring the first kiss, the second, the third, and then the feel of his hand wrapping around yours. Music fading to a low hum that sings in your blood, blurring your vision and narrowing the scope of the entire world to his voice, his touch, to _him_. 

Love beats between the notes, even in the supply closet, muted and muffled by distance and danger. It’s a candlelight love -- small and fresh, burning and flickering so, so bright. If you’re caught, you’ll both catch hell, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter -- truly it doesn’t. Your mother will know right away, when you creep up the stairs, wine on your breath and him in your veins, curls spoiled by roaming hands. 

You can’t be mad, though -- because doesn’t he look swell in Victory Red, your bright kisses stamped to his neck and cheeks? 

* * *

_**1943** _

His goodbye is salt on your tongue, tears sliding from your cheeks and his eyes, melting in the scant space between you two. Not a closet this time, but a moonlit night, a June night, his uniform clashing and blending in equal measure with the silky roses on your skirt. 

“Don’t go,” you say, because you’ve got to try -- got to try while the headlines drip with death and he stands there so young and vulnerable in your arms. 

Apologies pour from him, gilded with those endearments you love so much: _honey, doll, sweetheart, sugar_. He remakes you over and over again with those words; he has one for every occasion, and heartbreak demands them all. 

There will be letters, scented with your perfume and marked through by the censors. You’ll be just another girl on the home front, slogging back sweaty and spent from the factory, making love by pen and paper. 

But there won’t be _this_ , not for a long time. 

You savour it. Run your fingers through that thick sweep of hair; trace his clean-shaven jaw until he shudders and nuzzles into the cup of your hand. You memorize the story of him, set to the tune of a jazz standard, one that gets his toes tapping and sets you positively tipsy with joy. 

And in this way, you carve a farewell from tearful desperation. When he goes that night, a deep kiss at each and every step leading up to your floor -- when he goes that night, you watch until he rounds the corner. Memorize the press of him against the night, a silhouette in stolen youth. 

Your mother looks askance at the smudges of red about your mouth, but says nothing. Because her gaze has travelled to the shimmer of your eyes, the hope fizzling, the candle sputtering out in your gaze. 

* * *

_**1945** _

The mail comes late that morning, but that’s just as well. You see the neat, sharp directness of his hand, but you decide to wait. You’re already late for work -- can’t afford to lose another twenty minutes reading his words over and over again. 

The day passes in sluggish increments, so that every step home seems a mile in and of itself. Fro the corner, you see her waiting, those blue eyes so like his swimming with tears as you approach. Wringing her hands, willing them to let go of their dark burden.  

“Give me a moment,” you say, bitter grief souring your watery smile. You’ll give him this. You’ll make yourself softly pretty for him again, his dancing girl -- his pretty girl with ashes in her mouth now, the taste of preemptive pain. 

In the safe cocoon of your bedroom, as your mother knocks on the door and his sister sobs your name and his, you make yourself ready for him. Lace and curls, black lashes that kiss your cheeks and lips as crimson as victory. You slip into the green dress he liked so much, the one that slipped and slid beneath his fingertips, the one that danced more than you did. 

You read his letter on your bed, smiling at the jokes in the margins and the Xs and Os by his name. _All my love_. You press a kiss to his words, imagine the feel of his lips, the secret of his hands against your skin. 

And when you open the door to face it all, you’re dressed for him. Pretty as a picture, just for him. Scorched raw with an ache he cannot soothe. 

 _Baby doll_. 

* * *

_**1948** _

His kiss is different. It doesn’t taste the same, doesn’t feel the same, and your teeth clack against his in a way they never did with --

_No._

But he’s a good man, as everyone tells you, and those are hard to find. You fit together in the most surprising ways, a pair of ragged jigsaw pieces who have somehow managed to slide and blend in all the right places. Or, at least, _most_ of the right places. 

His biggest flaw is that he’s not --

_No._

You press down the scream, chew it and bite it and swallow it whole. Because it can’t be helped. And he won’t hurt you, you know that; he’s far too gentle a man. And he’s good with his money, you know that; he’s far too cautious a man. And he will love you, you know that; because he’s far too loyal a man. 

You’ve yet to tell him of the supply closet, of the moonlight in June -- the pale, gleaming slivers that bore witness to everything, illuminated _everything_. 

Perhaps you never will. 

Perhaps tonight, when he unwraps your lace and undoes your curls, when you’ve wiped the black lashes from your eyes and the paint from your lips -- perhaps then he will know. 

But will he care? You certainly don’t, not in that moment, not as the blooms from someone else’s garden are shoved into your hands and, in the distance, an organ sings for you. You scarcely hear it; your ears are filled with older music. 

Back when you’d danced with someone else, lips stained with yet-to-be-broken promises and a bright, crimson victory. 


End file.
